When you lose a parent, suddenly your only fear becomes losing the other. Since assessing her health and well being is a bit complex, you look at all her more tangible assets (in our case, paintings of nudes done by my brother, paintings of krishna done by others, and a thousand knick knacks from every craft fair on the east coast). I don't want to move anything from this house. Ever. I want this place to look exactly like this. Forever should have been weaned out of my dictionary, and yet, it's not.
My mother is very careful not to smoke in the house. Nothing smells like smoke. No number of stories about the state of papa in the hospital ultimately seem to have any effect. Escapist adults. One marches off to the mountain when he's ill, albeit away from horrid doctors and worse hospitals. The other doesn't sleep, eat, rest, exercise if it gets in the way of work. Why was I raised so routine conscious when they themselves take all the liberties? Libertines!
I walked into the house this time thinking, "Oh god, clutter". Peak inventory season. Hats coming out of every crevice of the house. Lectures certainly ensued about financing inventory on credit cards. But I looked further. Saw the book after book on design and textile and fabric and weave. Even my meager heart succumbed.
My eyes always fall on the mustard walls. It's supposed to be an unlucky color to love in Spanish lore. Our baby days, our chubby days, our graduations duly documented in frames. The reminders in charcoal of the time when she looked for shelter. The avid garden. The butterflies in the curtains.
The morphosis happened when i wasn't paying attention. This is me. The Mrs. Bennett moments, so punjabi by nature. The losses. The acrylics. The asceticism. The ups /downs unmodulated without endorphins. The worry, the resignation to what will be... The reminder that everything is always a choice.
incomplete
My mother is very careful not to smoke in the house. Nothing smells like smoke. No number of stories about the state of papa in the hospital ultimately seem to have any effect. Escapist adults. One marches off to the mountain when he's ill, albeit away from horrid doctors and worse hospitals. The other doesn't sleep, eat, rest, exercise if it gets in the way of work. Why was I raised so routine conscious when they themselves take all the liberties? Libertines!
I walked into the house this time thinking, "Oh god, clutter". Peak inventory season. Hats coming out of every crevice of the house. Lectures certainly ensued about financing inventory on credit cards. But I looked further. Saw the book after book on design and textile and fabric and weave. Even my meager heart succumbed.
My eyes always fall on the mustard walls. It's supposed to be an unlucky color to love in Spanish lore. Our baby days, our chubby days, our graduations duly documented in frames. The reminders in charcoal of the time when she looked for shelter. The avid garden. The butterflies in the curtains.
The morphosis happened when i wasn't paying attention. This is me. The Mrs. Bennett moments, so punjabi by nature. The losses. The acrylics. The asceticism. The ups /downs unmodulated without endorphins. The worry, the resignation to what will be... The reminder that everything is always a choice.
incomplete
2 comments:
"unmodulated without endorphins."
Well, "incomplete" is apt.
Sometimes wonder if we ever get time to enjoy an adult relationship with our parents. Some say they leave while that relationship is still in its infancy.
Someone had very kindly said to me and I will never forget it, since it was as my dad went towards the fire and I knew i'd never see him in physical form again, that he wasn't really gone since Arnav and I were still here. And I guess if you believe it enough, it becomes real. So now, I always feel he's around. As an adult. We're both adults. As much as I shy away from that label most of the time
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